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I was a coward on instinct.
William Shakespeare
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William Shakespeare
Age: 51 †
Born: 1564
Born: April 26
Died: 1616
Died: April 23
Actor
Dramaturge
Playwright
Poet
Stage Actor
Writer
Stratford-upon-Avon
Warwickshire
Shakespeare
The Bard
The Bard of Avon
William Shakspere
Swan of Avon
Bard of Avon
Shakespere
Shakespear
Shakspeare
Shackspeare
William Shake‐ſpeare
Coward
Instinct
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Kindness nobler ever than revenge.
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Hamlet: Is this a prologue, or the posy of a ring? Ophelia: 'Tis brief, my lord. Hamlet: As woman's love.
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A very ancient and fish-like smell.
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Good things should be praised.
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Lady, you know no rules of charity, Which renders good for bad, blessings for curses.
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I love him for his sake And yet I know him a notorious liar, Think him a great way fool, solely a coward Yet these fix'd evils sit so fit in him That they take place when virtue's steely bones Looks bleak i' th' cold wind withal, full oft we see Cold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly.
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He that has a house to put's head in has a good head-piece.
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How many a holy and obsequious tear hath dear religious love stolen from mine eye, as interest of the dead!
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Under loves heavy burden do I sink. --Romeo
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My father names me Autolycus, who being, as I am, littered under Mercury, was likewise a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles.
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Unbidden guests Are often welcomest when they are gone.
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Now, good digestion wait on appetite, and health on both!
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That is the way to lay the city flat, To bring the roof to the foundation, And bury all, which yet distinctly ranges, In heaps and piles of ruin.
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O Lord that lends me life, Lend me a heart replete with thankfulness!
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Eye of newt, and toe of frog, Wool of bat, and tongue of dog, Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting, Lizard's leg, and owlet's wing, For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
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The cheek Is apter than the tongue to tell an errand.
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They have a plentiful lack of wit.
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O world, world! thus is the poor agent despised. O traitors and bawds, how earnestly are you set a-work, and how ill requited! Why should our endeavor be so loved, and the performance so loathed?
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